Read Online Andersonville by Edward M. Erdelac - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward M. Erdelac
Ads: Link
a surprisingly strident voice: “Oh, that thou wouldest rend the heavens, that thou wouldest come down, that the mountains might flow down at thy presence, as when the melting fire burneth, the fire causeth the waters to boil, to make thy name known to thine adversaries, that the nations may tremble at thy presence-er!”
Barclay recognized it as something from Isaiah.
The man continued his loud recitation, and though a few sickly men wandering around the banks turned to him, most looked away.
The man slowly turned as he cried out: “But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away-er. And there is none that calleth upon thy name, that stirreth up himself to take hold of thee: for thou hast hid thy face from us, and hast consumed us, because of our iniquities-er.”
Barclay shuddered at the sight of the man. He was a scarecrow, as deathly looking as many of the men he’d seen, though his nudity made him a more unbearable sight. His outstretched arms were as thin as cornstalks, and his skinny neck seemed ill suited to hold his huge, bony face aright.
But Barclay had seen that face earlier. It was the bright-eyed, high-cheeked man with the bushy beard and flat hair who had taken something from the body of the man the dogs had caught.
Those eyes shone bright with madness and streamed tears like the eyes of a man who had gone blind staring into the sun. That face was alight with an ecstatic smile.
And now, as he spoke, he methodically drew something across his sunken chest, some small jagged something clenched in his fist, perhaps a stone, that plowed crooked furrows in his flesh, which streamed blood.
He roared like a wild John the Baptist not to his fellow prisoners, not to his captors, but to God himself.
“But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand-er. Be not wroth very sore, O Lord, neither remember iniquity forever: behold, see, we beseech thee, we are all thy people-er. Thy holy cities are a wilderness, Zion is a wilderness, Jerusalem a desolation-er. Our holy and our beautiful house, where our fathers praised thee, is burned up with fire: and all our pleasant things are laid waste-er.”
Worst of all was the terrible wound he carried. It was not some fresh mark of his capture or of battle or of his own recent self-torture. It was an old mutilation, twisted with scar tissue. His tapering, dark-haired pelvis terminated in a stub of pale cicatricial tissue where his manhood should have dangled. He was a eunuch.
Barclay stared at the terrible apocalyptic figure in a kind of morbid glamour, and to his real horror, the man locked eyes with him and pointed one long, skeletal finger directly at him and fixed him with his blazing eyes.
“Brother!” he called, sputtering, maggots and grubs dripping from his thick beard. “Don’t eat the cornmeal-er!”
Barclay stepped back from the water, shaking his head at the absurdity and madness of it, and stumbled away. He found that in the short time he had spent stationary near the creek, lice and ticks had swarmed up his pant legs. They looked like grains of wet black sand on his trousers. He swatted at them uselessly.
He wandered through the stockade as the sun slipped west, getting a feel for its layout.
He discovered that the creek wasn’t the only source of fresh water. On the north end of the stockade he spied prisoners extracting leather bags of fresh water from wells dug into the hillside. This water, of course, was closely guarded and was sold to other inmates at a sizable cost in greenbacks or trade goods, usually foodstuffs or wood for fire or shelter construction but also brass uniform buttons that could be traded to the Rebel guards for various contraband items such as salt from the bake house, peppers, or vegetables.
Of the two main streets, the one north of the creek
Barclay recognized it as something from Isaiah.
The man continued his loud recitation, and though a few sickly men wandering around the banks turned to him, most looked away.
The man slowly turned as he cried out: “But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away-er. And there is none that calleth upon thy name, that stirreth up himself to take hold of thee: for thou hast hid thy face from us, and hast consumed us, because of our iniquities-er.”
Barclay shuddered at the sight of the man. He was a scarecrow, as deathly looking as many of the men he’d seen, though his nudity made him a more unbearable sight. His outstretched arms were as thin as cornstalks, and his skinny neck seemed ill suited to hold his huge, bony face aright.
But Barclay had seen that face earlier. It was the bright-eyed, high-cheeked man with the bushy beard and flat hair who had taken something from the body of the man the dogs had caught.
Those eyes shone bright with madness and streamed tears like the eyes of a man who had gone blind staring into the sun. That face was alight with an ecstatic smile.
And now, as he spoke, he methodically drew something across his sunken chest, some small jagged something clenched in his fist, perhaps a stone, that plowed crooked furrows in his flesh, which streamed blood.
He roared like a wild John the Baptist not to his fellow prisoners, not to his captors, but to God himself.
“But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand-er. Be not wroth very sore, O Lord, neither remember iniquity forever: behold, see, we beseech thee, we are all thy people-er. Thy holy cities are a wilderness, Zion is a wilderness, Jerusalem a desolation-er. Our holy and our beautiful house, where our fathers praised thee, is burned up with fire: and all our pleasant things are laid waste-er.”
Worst of all was the terrible wound he carried. It was not some fresh mark of his capture or of battle or of his own recent self-torture. It was an old mutilation, twisted with scar tissue. His tapering, dark-haired pelvis terminated in a stub of pale cicatricial tissue where his manhood should have dangled. He was a eunuch.
Barclay stared at the terrible apocalyptic figure in a kind of morbid glamour, and to his real horror, the man locked eyes with him and pointed one long, skeletal finger directly at him and fixed him with his blazing eyes.
“Brother!” he called, sputtering, maggots and grubs dripping from his thick beard. “Don’t eat the cornmeal-er!”
Barclay stepped back from the water, shaking his head at the absurdity and madness of it, and stumbled away. He found that in the short time he had spent stationary near the creek, lice and ticks had swarmed up his pant legs. They looked like grains of wet black sand on his trousers. He swatted at them uselessly.
He wandered through the stockade as the sun slipped west, getting a feel for its layout.
He discovered that the creek wasn’t the only source of fresh water. On the north end of the stockade he spied prisoners extracting leather bags of fresh water from wells dug into the hillside. This water, of course, was closely guarded and was sold to other inmates at a sizable cost in greenbacks or trade goods, usually foodstuffs or wood for fire or shelter construction but also brass uniform buttons that could be traded to the Rebel guards for various contraband items such as salt from the bake house, peppers, or vegetables.
Of the two main streets, the one north of the creek
Similar Books
